


demo aenai koto watashi dake shitte iru no

by Chash



Series: let it rest and be done [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/M, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 21:38:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10839960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chash/pseuds/Chash
Summary: People don't make friends with witches, usually. But apparently Bellamy Blake isn't like other people. He doesn't care that Clarke's a witch; he seems to want to keep her anyway.It shouldn't be that hard.





	demo aenai koto watashi dake shitte iru no

**Author's Note:**

> Given this is more than twice as long as "For a While I Heard You Missing Steps In the Street," it feels weird to just call it Clarke's POV. It starts a lot earlier and covers the period leading up to that fic as well, so it's kind of a prequel as well.
> 
> Title from "Hikari no naka e" by Sakamoto Maaya. Translation is roughly "but I'm the only one who knows we can't see each other."

The first time Clarke takes someone's memories, she's thirteen, apprenticed to Anya to learn how to use her powers. A man comes to them because his horse was lamed, and he can't bring himself to kill her.

"She's only a few years old," he says. "I can't afford another, and I can't--"

"Can you feel the price?" Anya asks.

Clarke closes her eyes and pushes the _thought_ of magic toward the horse. It's one of the first things witches must learn: how to imagine without doing.

"Memory," she says, slow.

Anya nods. "When life is in the balance, the price is almost always memory. What kind?"

"Old?" she hazards. She's never had to try to do this before, and it's hard to be sure what she's seeing.

"A memory of childhood," Anya tells Clarke and the man together. "You won't ever know it's gone."

"That's it?" he asks. His relief is feels like a wave, gratitude crashing over her so hard and heavy it makes her wince. She understands why, but all she can feel is guilt. What would it be like, to lose a part of your mind, to never know you lost it? It's unfathomable. One of her first memories is becoming a witch; what would she even be, without that? All the memories she has feel important.

"That's all," says Anya. "It is a heavier price than you think."

He doesn't hesitate. "I'll pay it."

"You can do it, Clarke," says Anya, and Clarke exhales and lets the magic go, instead of just thinking about how it would be. Anya had already applied the necessary herbs and potions, and this is the last step, the magic bringing them all together. She feels the bones knitting, feels the pain leaving the horse, and then she feels the magic, hungry, reaching out for payment. The man's memories flash by her as they leave him, just quick fragments. The time his mother scolded him for stealing milk, a girl kissing him on the cheek for bringing her milk, a game he made up with his brother. 

His eyes are hazy when they open, which is common after any kind of magic, and he looks disoriented. 

"Your horse has been cured," says Anya, smooth as always. "The price was paid."

He nods. His mind is still malleable now, and these are times witches can do great harm. Saying the wrong thing now could destroy a person. They could tell him anything, and he'd believe it.

It's a lot of responsibility.

But instead they seat him and give him tea, and when he's regained himself, he rides his horse home. Her gait is quick and her legs are straight, and Clarke feels mostly proud.

He chose to pay the price. He won't even miss the memories.

"What other kinds of memories are there?" she asks. "To pay the price?"

"All kinds. If you forget enough, you can raise the dead. That is dangerous magic," she adds. "You must be careful. Desperate people will pay anything. You can't always let them."

"How can I stop them?"

"Lie," says Anya. "When they ask what you can do, tell them nothing. Some people will throw themselves away for others."

She thinks it over. " _Why_ should I stop them? If they want to pay the price, why can't they?"

"The price is a price for you too. You know what you took."

When Clarke closes her eyes, she can still feel the echo of the man's memories, the ghost of someone's else's life in her own mind.

"What would happen if someone else asked him?" she wonders. "About one of his memories."

"They've forgotten too. They won't."

"Could he ever get them back?"

"Of course. It's a kind of curse, and all curses can be broken. But we would have to be the ones to break it. No one but you and I know what he lost. It's a heavy burden. Don't take it on lightly."

"It was right to save the horse," Clarke says. She feels sure.

Anya nods. "I think so. But you should know what it means. Animals are fine. Humans are trickier. The price is higher. Be careful with it."

"I will," Clarke promises, and she means it.

She won't do it unless she's sure.

*

Witch Juniper lived in a run-down cottage in a valley between three towns, and she was experienced enough to serve all of them with just herself and her apprentice. But when she passes, her apprentice isn't ready to take on so many people on her own, and Clarke's mother is trying to convince her to give up witchcraft and settle down to get married. According to Abby, she's twenty-one, and while it's good she has an occupation, she doesn't have to be a witch _all_ the time. Abby is a healer, and that's a lot like a witch, without magic. She still has a family, and Clarke could too.

It doesn't sound _bad_ , but it's not what she wants right now, so she packs up her things and moves to the old witch's cottage in Arcadia, which has been abandoned for a good twenty years. She spends a week cleaning up the place, making it livable, and by the time she's done, it _is_. It's one of those places that should, by all rights, feel cramped and musty, but instead if feels cozy and safe. It's not like her parents' home or Anya's, but--it feels like a place she could belong.

Even before the house is ready, she has people coming to gawk at her. They come under the pretense of seeing if she needs help, or asking after potions, and she receives them with the kind of aloof hospitality a witch is supposed to have. She's never thought of herself as particularly warm or welcoming, and she's glad she isn't supposed to be. Witches aren't meant to be _friends_. People come to her when they need something, that's all.

And when she needs something she goes to them, which people seem to find funny. She goes to the market to buy supplies, and whispers follow her. She goes to the blacksmith to see about getting some of the metal on her door replaced and the woman asks if she can't do it by magic.

She brings a dress she ripped on a splinter of wood to the tailor, and he pulls a face. 

"You can't fix this yourself?" he asks. It's on the tip of her tongue to tell him that sewing is a waste of magic when he adds, "How bad are you with a needle?"

He doesn't know who she is, she realizes with an odd thrill. She likes being a witch, but it is nice to be in disguise sometimes. To be treated like an ordinary girl who should be a better seamstress. She should, honestly. He isn't wrong.

"Very bad. It's not just the dress either."

"Yeah? What else have you got? I want to see what I'm dealing with." She pulls the moth-eaten curtains out of her bag, and he whistles. "I can't fix those. You need new ones."

"I thought so. But there are others at the house that are still intact, so I wanted to get the new ones made to match, if that's possible."

"I don't get a lot of requests to make shitty old curtains, but if that's really what you want." He considers her, and Clarke considers him right back. He seems young, probably only a few years older than she is, and he's handsome, with messy black curls and a smattering of freckles across his tan skin. There's a scar over his lip that draws attention to his mouth, and below that he's nothing but muscles and shoulders.

And he's treating her like a person.

"How many do you have that you want to keep?" he asks.

"What?"

"Curtains," he says. "How many do you have that you want to keep?"

"Three more sets. This half of the set is beyond repair," she says, nodding toward pile of fabric that's more tatter than curtain, at this point. "And these two sets too."

"So, six total windows," he says. "In your house."

She nods. "Six I want curtains for. The others have shutters."

"I've got some extra fabric left over from another job. It's no good for clothes or bedding, too rough. But it would be good for this. It's going to take me a lot longer to match the color, so I'd have to charge you more anyway. Just let me make you some new ones."

"It sounds like more work for you."

"It's not. And you're still paying me. This time you're paying me for something I like."

"You like sewing?" Clarke asks, dubious. It's always bored her. And she's constantly jabbing herself with the needle.

"It's relaxing," he says. "You don't?"

"If I did I wouldn't be bringing you my dress."

"You can like something and still be bad at it. That's why I keep trying to learn how to play an instrument." She lets out a soft huff of involuntary laughter, and he grins. "Come on, it's fun. I'll show you this fabric. You can tell me if you like it."

She follows him into the back of the store, and the fabric is more than acceptable, a better color than the ones she has now at a low price. It is rough under her fingers, but she doesn't care about that.

"How much do you do to make curtains?" she can't help asking. It's that or leave, and she finds she doesn't want to. "Do you just cut the fabric into squares?"

He gives her an unimpressed look. "Not unless you want them to fray before they're even hung up. And you don't have anything to hang them by. You'd have to nail them up." He picks up the bolt of cloth. "Come on, you can watch if you want."

She's expecting him to ask about her at some point, but he doesn't. He mostly works in silence, breaking it only to tell her what he's doing and why. Clarke finds herself mostly watching his hands, which are large and solid, but somehow marvelously deft. Hands like that are the ordinary kind of magic; they look impossible, but there they are, making tiny stitches anyway.

They both startle when the bell over the door chimes, and a brown-haired girl storms in. 

"Bell, you're supposed to be cooking tonight, I'm--" she starts, and then she notices Clarke.

Clarke feels, oddly, as if she's been pricked by a needle, this sudden, sharp burst of pain, nothing _big_ , nothing life-threatening, just a shock of hurt that jolts her out of her thoughts.

So his name is Bell, and he's--spoken for. It's not even surprising, now that she thinks about it. He's young and handsome and owns his own business. He's probably one of the most eligible men in the town. She hadn't even really been thinking about him like that.

Not on purpose, at least.

"What's wrong?" the girl demands, and Bell crosses hims arms over his chest.

"What do you mean, what's wrong?" he asks. "Nothing's wrong. I lost track of time."

"Then why is the witch here?" she demands. "If you're sick--"

Bell's eyes flick to Clarke, and Clarke doesn't know what to say. He didn't _ask_. He didn't even tell her his name. It's not as if she was hiding it from him. "She needs curtains, O," he says. "Witches are people too. You're in the old cottage?" he adds, to Clarke.

"Yeah," says Clarke.

"No wonder your curtains are a wreck," he says. "Are you hungry?"

He's still looking at her, but it still takes her a second to realize he's actually addressing her. "Me?"

"Apparently my sister is starving to death," he says, and Clarke tries not to let herself feel relieved. "And it's late. Do you want to come for dinner or not?"

"You don't even know my name," she says.

"I assume you can tell me. Or is that a witch thing? No one can know your real name?"

_Witch_ is sufficient for most people. It's a title and a name all by itself. To almost everyone she meets, it's the most important thing about her. 

"Most people don't want to know," she says. "It's Clarke."

"Nice to meet you, Clarke," he says. "I'm Bellamy. This is my sister, Octavia. Our house is just next door. It's a lot closer than your house."

She is hungry, and so far the fact that she's a witch hasn't made him appear any more concerned with politeness or any less interested in talking to her. 

Which is nice.

"Are you sure you don't mind?"

"I don't mind," he says. "O doesn't mind either."

His sister is watching the two of them with undisguised curiosity, but when Clarke looks at her, she brightens with a smile. "I don't mind," she agrees. "I'm proud of you for making a friend, Bell. Even if it's the witch. No offense," she adds to Clarke.

"None taken," says Clarke, truthfully. People don't often just decide to befriend witches. Even if they didn't know they were witches at the time. "I could use a friend."

*

It's kind of embarrassingly true; Clarke doesn't have many friends, and none here, so she isn't sure of the next steps. She has a nice dinner with the Blakes, and Octavia asks a lot of questions about how she became a witch, which Clarke answers mostly truthfully, and Bellamy asks questions about how she's fixing up the old house, and she manages to get a few questions of her own in, about what Octavia does (hunt and find things in the forest, mostly) and how Bellamy became a tailor (took over the shop when his mother died).

Bellamy makes her take food with her when she goes, and tells her to come back on Tuesday for the curtains.

But that was Thursday, and now it's Saturday, and Clarke has done everything she wants to to her cottage except put up the curtains. She's planted her garden and gotten some chickens and a cow and even a cat. Her potion materials are organized, her stock is full, and she has food and supplies.

She's settled, and, honestly, she's a little bored. It would be an ideal time to spend some time with a friend, but she has no idea how. She went to the market this morning and didn't see Bellamy or his sister. She assumes he's at home or at the shop, but she doesn't have any reason to go to the shop, and it feels strange to stop by just to see him. It feels even stranger to go to his house just to see if he's there.

Inspiration strikes at lunch, when she finishes the last of the venison Bellamy gave her. He wrapped it up in a very handsome bowl, so it's only polite to wash and return it. She's not going to steal his pottery. 

She's getting ready to leave when she hears the knock on her front door, and she lets out a soft breath of commingled relief and disappointment. Someone needs her, so she can't go see Bellamy. She'll go soon. Definitely. But she doesn't have to go _now_.

She schools her face into pleasant blankness and opens the door. "How can I--" she starts, and then realizes it's Bellamy. "I was just coming to see you. What's wrong?"

"Nothing. What's wrong with you?"

"What would be wrong with me?"

"Why were you coming to see me?"

"Oh," she says. "I was going to--" She gestures in the vague direction of where she left the dish. "I was going to return your bowl. Why are you here?"

"Because I wanted to see what it was like," he says. "The last witch died when I was six, so I don't really remember what it was like having one. My best friend Miller said you had a lot of weird potions."

"Miller?" she asks. She's met a lot of people, but most of them don't introduce themselves.

"Black hair, dark skin, beard? Kind of surly, doesn't talk much." He half-smiles at her blank look. "I'll introduce you sometime. Can I come in?"

She startles. "Oh, yes. Of course. It's not really that interesting," she can't help adding. "My potions aren't that weird."

"I've never seen an actual potion before, so they're all weird to me," he says. "Besides, I want to look at the windows. Make sure I'm doing a good job with the curtains."

"Do you put in this much effort with everyone who comes into your shop?" she asks.

"Nope," he says, without hesitation. "But you're a witch. I don't know any witches. I don't even know what witches _do_. I know that if you have a problem, you go to the witch, but--how does that work? What do you do? How do your potions work?"

She lets out a surprised laugh. "That's what you want to know?"

"Wouldn't you?"

Somehow, it hadn't ever occurred to her, but it really should have. Because of course she would. Even being a witch, she's always wanted to know more. She _likes_ finding out how things work. But she's gotten used to people not wanting to know about these things. Witches make them nervous.

"I have a lot of potions," she says. "It'll take a while to tell you about all of them."

"You're not going anywhere, right?" he asks.

She has to smile. "No. We can start with the easy potions."

"What makes them easy?"

"That's what I'm going to tell you, if you'll just _listen_ ," she teases, and he flashes her a bright grin.

"Please, go ahead."

She tells him about her simplest potions, for encouraging plant growth, the ones she can make without paying her own price for the magic. She explains to him how the spell sucks the moisture from leaves as its price, and they break on their own and mingle, and he asks questions every step of the way. It's so _new_ , just discussing it with someone, the same way he talked about the curtains he was sewing for her, and when she has some free time on Sunday, it's easy to find him and have him tell her what he's working on.

And it keeps on being easy. The rest of the town learns that if the witch isn't at home, she's probably with Bellamy, or he'll know where she is, so Clarke doesn't even have to feel guilty for spending her afternoons in his shop. It becomes a part of her routine, and she becomes a part of his too. He'll come by on his days off and read her books, and he introduces her to Miller, whom she does remember, and Miller's partner Monty, and Raven the blacksmith. And Clarke likes them all fine--likes them a great deal, even--but she never gets comfortable with them. Not like she is with him.

But she still doesn't know how to tell him about the price she pays to make the big potions.

To her, it's not a big deal, but her mother was horrified when she found out, wanted to take Clarke away from Anya and her apprenticeship, to bring her home. But to Clarke, it was nice. She could help people without hurting them too. It was so much better than pulling someone's childhood memories out of their mind. And she thinks Bellamy might understand that, but--

He's Bellamy. He'd worry too.

So when he finds out, it's by accident, a few months into their friendship. She's sitting in his shop, reading a poetry book she borrowed from Miller, when he tugs on the sleeve of her dress.

"What?" she asks.

"This is fraying."

"Everything I own is fraying."

"This is fraying _a lot_ ," he says, and pulls it up a little to examine the inside of the sleeve.

Or that's what he would be doing, if the exposed skin didn't show a ring of round bruises around her wrist, like a fading bracelet. Her instinct is to pull away, but he's already noticed, and his fingers are gentle as he traces the marks.

"It's fine," she says.

"What happened?"

"All magic has a price." His eyes snap up to her, wild with concern, and she feels her face melting into a smile. "It's how I make potions."

He pushes her sleeve up further, and his fingers follow, the ghost of a touch on her bare skin that nearly makes her shiver. 

"Sorry," he says, soft, and she realizes he thinks he's hurting her. It makes her smile, and he smiles back, sheepish. She could just lean in and kiss him so _easily_. Her mind wanders to how it would be, his hand sliding up her arm, wrapping around the back of her neck, kissing her back warm and eager. 

Or he'd jerk back, flush, stutter apologies, talk around the real issue, which is that she's a witch, and he likes her, but he still doesn't think of her as, well--people don't kiss witches. Bellamy might, but he might not, too. She's not sure yet.

"I'm really fine," she tells him.

"This is why you never told me your price?" 

She feels her cheeks heat up further. "You noticed?"

"You're not subtle, Clarke." He shifts so he can move his attention to her other arm, giving it the same gentle treatment. "Fuck. Do your arms always just--hurt?"

"They're the same as ordinary bruises, Bellamy. It hurts when I get them, and then if I hit them on something. But I'm used to it."

"You shouldn't be used to this," he says. "It's--you don't have to make the potions in advance. You could--"

"People won't give you much payment for potions they already have to get hurt for. And that's how I make real coin. If I make them take the price for the magic, they don't think they owe me any more."

His jaw works. "That's bullshit."

She shrugs. "It's how it is. The witch tells you the price. If the price is a bruise, and she adds a coin on top of that, she's being greedy. It's not as if I need that much money," she adds, quickly. "I get paid other ways. But--it's nice to just be able to buy things."

"But someone else could pay," he says. He's still staring at her arm.

"If I wanted, but--people don't like the price either."

"That was how you found your powers too, right?" His finger probes the darkest bruise, so soft it breaks her heart. "You give bruises."

"If the price for the magic was high enough it would be worse."

"Save a life, break an arm," he teases. 

"Save a life, take a memory." He cocks his head, and she smiles. "When life is in the balance, the price is almost always memory. That's what my mistress told me."

"How does that work?" he asks.

It's no different from dozens of other conversations they've had, except that he's still holding her arm, absently rubbing circles on her wrist, and she's not even sure he realizes he's still doing it. And she's worried if she takes any notice of it, he'll stop.

"The same as any other spell. The magic reaches out and takes its price."

"But how do you take a memory?"

" _Magic_ ," she teases, and he snorts, taps her wrist. "It pulls them out, the same way it pushes bruises in. I can't explain it. I'll see if I can find a book for you."

"Thanks." At last, he lets go of her, awkwardly, like he's just realized he should have done it earlier, and now he's not sure how to make it natural. Clarke has to smile. "So, uh--" he says. "Let me get some thread for your sleeve."

"It's fine," he says.

"It's fraying. I'll fix it."

She catches his wrist before he can go to get his kit. "Bellamy?"

"What?"

"Thanks."

"For what?"

"For--most people get weird. About the bruises."

His eyebrows shoot up. "Sorry, are you saying that wasn't weird?"

"They think _I'm_ weird. They don't--" It feels too honest, but she wants him to know how much it means to her, that he's her friend. That he thinks her powers are interesting, instead of unnerving. That he sees the way her magic pushes marks into her skin and only cares because she's hurting herself. "People don't make friends with witches," she settles on. "Or don't stay friends with them."

He bites the corner of his mouth on a smile, something warm and soft that seems to embarrass him. "Well, if I wasn't still friends with you, all your clothes would have fallen apart. So I'd better stick around."

"Yeah," she agrees. "You'd better."

*

Saturday is her usual potion-making day, and Bellamy often shows up to read while she works. It meant she had to wait until evening to do the bruising potions, but of course she didn't mind. The company more than made up for it. 

Now that he knows, she's not surprised that he sits down next to her on the bench and says, "So, how do the big potions work?"

"I do them when you're not here," she says.

"Yeah? Why?"

"To make sure I'm not hurting myself too much. That's why I put them on my arms, so that I can see how dark they are and how they're spread out."

"So I should take my shirt off?" he asks. At her blank look, he adds, "So you'll know how bad the bruises are."

She should have seen it coming, honestly. "Bellamy--"

He's already unbuttoning his shirt. "You just send the magic to me instead of you. It's not hard, right?"

Every response she comes up with dies before she can actually articulate it. Of course he's sure, of course he wants to do it, of course she _can_ do it. She's not going to talk him out of this; she can only tell him she won't do it, and if she does, he'll argue with her.

"It's not that bad," she finally says. She has to _try_.

"If it's not that bad, I won't mind it," he says. He finishes the buttons and shrugs out of his shirt. He's still wearing an undershirt, plain white fabric, but his arms are bare, and they're _huge_. His shoulders look even broader than usual, covered in their own spray of freckles, and Clarke can't help letting her eyes race over all the smooth, bare skin. It's not the moment for it, but--he looks so _good_. "You don't have to do this alone, Clarke," he adds, jolting her out of it.

"You don't have to do it with me either," she says, but she picks up her mortar and pestle and starts working, and Bellamy picks up one of her books and starts reading. She likes to finish all the materials first and then get the magic done in one swoop, but doesn't want to force it on Bellamy all at once.

So she nudges him and says, "Ready for the first one?"

He closes the book and shifts closer. "Yeah. What do I do?"

"You need to touch the bottle. And then I'll just send the magic in, and it'll flow out to you. I'll tell it where to stop. I usually start at the top of the arm and work down."

"Sounds good," he says, and takes the bottle without hesitation.

Clarke lets the magic seep out of her and into the potion. The magic knits it together and starts looking for someone to hurt, finds Bellamy. She guides it up his arm and watches it settle in the skin of his upper arm, just below his shoulder, pressing in and making a home there.

He watches too, frowning a little, until the magic spends itself. Clarke knows from experience that he'll know when it does, and sure enough his eyes snap to hers.

"That's it?"

"Sorry, did you want it to be worse?"

He pokes the bruise, curious. "How many are you going to do?"

"Thirty to fifty."

"Probably good it's not worse, then," he says.

"I'm only giving you half of them," she says. "I don't have to do this alone, but neither to you."

"Deal," he says, and settles back with his book. "Just tell when when to touch the bottle."

*

Every Saturday he comes, without fail. Clarke tells him she only makes those potions once a month, and she can't tell if he doesn't believe her or just likes coming by. She thinks, more and more,that the only ulterior motive he has for seeing her is the same one she has for seeing him, that he just--

He likes her. She likes him. She thinks they're going somewhere, and she doesn't know how to get there yet, but--it's probably only a matter of time. She hasn't even known him for a year; it doesn't feel like there's any rush.

And then his sister is hurt. At first, he says it's just a bad wound, something she'll bleed out from. Something attacked her in the woods, and she managed to drag herself home. Bellamy got the blood staunched as best he could and came to Clarke, and she thinks he'll lose a few years, probably when he was a teenager. It feels unthinkable to her, but he doesn't even blink.

"I don't need it. I had a pretty bad time, when I was a teenager." He worries his lip. "She stopped breathing while I was patching her up. Not for long, but--is it long enough?"

Clarke's own breath catches. She and Bellamy were reading about it only last week. _To save those who have touched death, one must give up their most precious person_. Clarke doesn't love the translation _most precious_ , but she can't come up with something better, and it doesn't really matter, anyway. It's academic.

"It might be," she says. "I won't know until I see her. But--if it's that bad, yes. It might be your most precious person instead."

"So, I lose her," he says.

"You won't even know," she says, absent. She's busy making sure she has what she needs. Everything has to be _perfect_. She'll take no risks.

"Will you still remember?" he asks. "Or do you forget like everyone else?"

She gets a flash of that man with the horse, the girl kissing his cheek. "No, I'll remember. Witches don't forget."

He seems to be thinking it over. "Do you know that from experience?"

"I've only had to do it once, and it wasn't--it was a small memory. Not a whole person. But there are ways to reverse it," she adds. She can ask Anya. She might not approve, but she'll help anyway. "I won't be able to tell you what you lost, or that I'm trying to fix it, and it might take a while for me to figure it out, but--"

"I won't know what I'm missing, right?" He's smiling a little, and Clarke's heart stutters. He knows she'll save Octavia. He trusts her.

"No, you won't," she says. "Now shut up and let me work."

He manages to stay quiet until they're going back to the house, and then all he says is, "You don't like doing this."

"What?"

"Memories. You don't like it."

"It's scary," she admits. "Just--erasing people's minds. I don't like that I can change people and they don't even know."

"I know," he says. "I won't know after, but--I know, Clarke. And I can't thank you enough. Fuck, I knew you were--what you do is amazing, but-- _thank you_."

"It's what I do, Bellamy. I'm the witch."

"Still."

When they arrive, Octavia's breathing has stopped, and Clarke talks him through getting her back again and doesn't let herself think about what's coming, doesn't let herself think about pulling every precious memory Bellamy has of his sister out of his mind and taking them for herself. She doesn't _want_ those. 

But magic is hungry, and Bellamy will save his sister. He'd rip himself in two.

"I'll make sure you get her back," she promises.

"I know," he says. "Thank you."

"Stop _saying that_ ," she says. "You don't have to thank me." She offers her hand less because she needs it for the spell and more to ground him, and he takes it without hesitation. 

And she lets the magic go.

First, she heals Octavia, pulls the ripped flesh together, lets the blood fill her veins. Once she's full up and whole, the magic feels as if it's exploding out of her, a ravenous thing, and for a second, she wonders what would happen, if she didn't let it take Bellamy. If she tried to stop it.

Octavia might die, and he'd never forgive her. So she lets the magic feed on him.

She knows exactly what the first memory should be. Bellamy told her about it: his mother was so tired after the birth, she handed the baby to him, told him his sister needed a name. He looked down at this tiny, red, wailing creature, and he named her Octavia.

But that's not what she sees. Instead, she sees herself opening the door of his shop. She looks so much more _nervous_ than she thought she did, shy about meeting someone new, and Bellamy notes absently that she's pretty. He kicks himself for being rude about her sewing, wishes he'd said something nice, and Clarke _doesn't want this_. She doesn't want to see these things.Love is all over every memory, huge and overwhelming, and she has no doubt that if she'd told him how he felt, he would have told her he felt the same. 

But the last memory flickers through her, him holding onto her hand, love and gratitude and fear of losing his sister heavy in his mind, and just like that, it's over.

He doesn't know her anymore.

"Your sister had a fall," says Clarke. "Nothing serious. And now she's better." Her throat closes on everything else she could say. She could just--she could tell him he loves her. He _does_. It's not even a lie.

But she can't.

"Goodbye," she says, and leaves before either of them realizes she's there.

She makes it home before she starts to cry.

*

If Bellamy had lost his memories of his sister, Clarke would have gone to Anya at once. Telling her that a boy had lost his memories of his sister to save her and Clarke wanted to get them back for him, that felt noble. Telling her that the boy she loves forgot her to save his sister, and Clarke didn't even _know_ he loved her and wants him back--that seems selfish. Even if she would have done the same thing no matter what. It's not _for_ her.

But she wants it so much it hurts, and she doesn't know what to do. No one knows her anymore, not like they used to. Raven will smile at her, Miller nods, Monty's friendly, but--without the memory of Bellamy introducing them, they just think of her as the witch. Someone they like, an acquaintance, but--not a friend. Not herself, not really.

She makes it nearly a week before she breaks and goes to see Bellamy. It's Thursday morning, the same time she met him for the first time, and she just--

She doesn't know what else to do. She's been checking all her books, seeing if she can find anything about breaking this kind of curse, but there's nothing that seems right. She has to go to Anya, but--maybe it's not that bad.

Bellamy looks up when the door jangles, and his smile is--polite. Not bright, not familiar. Welcoming, but not warm.

"Witch," he says, and it's the worst thing she's ever heard. It's not an _insult_ ; it's her title. Everyone calls her witch. She _likes_ being called witch.

But he always called her Clarke.

"Can I help you?" he asks.

"Just a little mending," she says, putting a dress on the counter in front of him. "I tore the skirt."

It's an easy job, but he doesn't tell her she should be able fix it herself, doesn't ask why no one ever taught her anything _useful_. He just says, "Of course. I can have it for you tomorrow."

"I'll actually be away for a few days," Clarke says. "I need to visit my mistress. I can come back next week?"

"Whenever you'd like," he says. "It's not going anywhere."

"Thank you," she says, and he shrugs, giving her half a smile.

"It's my job. Have a good trip, witch."

Honestly, she can't get away quickly enough.

There's a hostler who lets her borrow horses whenever she'd like as long as she examines the horses for free when they're unwell. She takes her favorite of them, a roan gelding, and rides all day to get to Anya's. 

Her mistress isn't exactly the warm and welcoming type, but she takes one look at Clarke and says, "I see something went wrong. Come in." Which is comforting in its own way; Bellamy may have forgotten her, but Anya is the same as ever.

Clarke sits at her table while Anya gets the tea ready. It feels like being an apprentice again, after a hard day, and it's comforting, familiar. 

But she can still hear Bellamy calling her _witch_.

"What happened?" Anya asks, once the tea is ready.

"I took--my friend's sister was dying. Her heart had stopped, so--"

"You told him the price?"

"He was my best friend," she says, staring down into her cup. "He already knew. He'd borrow my books."

"Ah," says Anya. "And he forgot you."

She rubs her face. "We thought he'd lose his sister. I promised I'd find a way to get the memories back anyway, but--"

"Well, it doesn't really matter," Anya finally says, pragmatic. Clarke nearly chokes. "He forgot someone, and you want him to remember. The specifics don't change what you need to do."

That helps. "What do I need to do?"

"That I don't know. But I'll find out."

"You will?" she asks.

"I don't have an apprentice, and Lexa is more than capable of dealing with any problems that may arise here. I've always wondered which cures for curses would work on the memory curse. I'd like to have the chance to find out."

Clarke swallows past the lump in her throat. It hadn't seemed impossible, that Anya would help. But she'd been ready to hear that Bellamy paid the price, and Anya saw no reason to reverse it.

"Do you think I did the right thing?" she asks Anya.

"Does it change anything if I don't?"

"No. But it's been a bad week. I could use some good news."

"Someone is alive because of you," says Anya. "That's never a bad feeling. And I'm sure your friend is grateful, even if he doesn't know." She shrugs. "You made the best choice you could. I'm sorry you didn't realize what he was giving up."

"It wouldn't have mattered," Clarke says. "He would have done it anyway."

"Hm." She sips her tea. "Well, I've been meaning to travel anyway. I'm sure someone knows how to restore the memories. I only have to find them."

"Thank you," she says.

Anya shrugs one shoulder. "Don't thank me. I haven't found it yet."

*

Clarke's new routine is much more like what she expected her life to be when she first came to Arcadia. In the mornings, she tends to her animals and checks her garden and does the chores. She visits anyone who's old or infirm or can't come to her, brings them potions and lets them tell her how they're feeling. She stops by the market to get groceries and chat with people. She reads a great deal--more about curses than she expected, of course--and cooks for herself, and she misses Bellamy like one of her limbs is gone.

She goes to see him once a week, always on Thursday morning. She doesn't bring him her pathetic mending, just buys fabric and string from him, and doesn't let herself try to make friends. She doesn't know what would be worse: if it worked, and he fell in love with her again, or if it didn't, and she found out whatever happened last time was just a fluke.

On Saturdays, she still makes potions, with no one to keep her company or share the burden.

Anya writes once every two weeks or so. She's not searching for an answer for Clarke so much as making the rounds visiting other witches she knows, and following any rumors they might have heard. It's rarely much more than a quick note letting Clarke know that she's still looking, and that whichever witch she'd been visiting sends her regards and would let Clarke know if she heard anything about how to break a memory curse. It's nice of them, but it makes Clarke feel antsy, too. She doesn't like not doing anything _herself_.

On Sundays, she starts traveling to the market in Polis. It's a long trip, but she can talk to people herself. Lexa is doing the same, of course, for which she's grateful, given their own history, and it _is_ nice to have someone she can actually talk to about the whole thing. She doesn't mind being alone, but it's a burden she never imagined, keeping a secret like this from her entire town.

"He isn't courting, is he?" Lexa asks once, and Clarke's blood runs cold.

"What?"

"Since he doesn't remember you, there's nothing stopping him courting someone else, I assume. Is he?"

"No, I don't think so," says Clarke, but it's a new source of stress, of course. There isn't anyone _now_ , but there will be, someday. If he never remembers her, he'll meet someone else, and he'll be happy.

And she can find a new place to live. She can get a new cottage. She'll be fine.

"I hope he doesn't," Lexa says, and sounds like she means it.

That Thursday, Bellamy smiles at her when she goes into his store, the same as always, and her heart aches with it.

"What can I help you with?" he asks.

"Do you know any young ladies who are courting?" He could be courting a man, of course, but that she would have heard from the town gossip. People tend to find it more remarkable.

He looks taken aback. "My sister?" he offers, as if he isn't sure. "Why?"

"I need a lock of hair from a loving maiden, I thought I'd try to get it while I was in town," she says. 

"Oh, uh, yeah, probably O's not good for that. She's courting, but I don't think I'd say she's _loving_. You know Raven?"

"I know Raven."

"She's got her eye on the girl who just started at the tavern. Maybe ask her."

"Thanks." She holds up a bolt of fabric. "How much for a yard of this?"

"Fuck, you can have it for free. It's hideous, no one wants to take it off my hands." He offers her a smile, and her entire chest aches. "Just give me a free potion next time I'm sick and we'll call it even."

"It's a deal. Thanks."

He comes over to lift up the bolt of cloth, and Clarke gets a breath of him as he passes, feels just a hint of his warmth. All she wants to do is tug him close, but she closes her eyes and exhales instead.

Once the fabric is cut, he hands it to her. "No problem. Good luck with the, uh--" He gestures to his own head. "Hair."

She has to smile. "Appreciated."

"Any time. Have a good day, witch."

The smile turns sour, but she doesn't think he can tell. "You too, tailor."

*

It takes almost a year, but a woman in Polis who sells herbs tells Clarke that she's heard about a temple that can break curses. She knows the name--Temple of the Open Arms--and a rough location. Clarke goes to Anya's to raid her library, finds it in a compendium of temples, and her heart lodges in her throat as she reads. _The Temple of Open Arms is meant to heal the broken and the downtrodden. Two people who are suffering must complete the trials together to reach the inner sanctum. Anyone who opens the door will have their curses lifted, and the spring inside will ease hurts._ She checks to see what _suffering_ entails, and heartbreak is one of the options, so she's set.

She goes by herself the first time, to make sure she knows the route and the temple really is there, and when she goes in, it looks like the _right_ temple. She can't make it into the first room alone, which is encouraging too. It's exactly like it's supposed to be. It's what she needs. It should _work_.

All she has to do is get Bellamy to come with her.

It's a long enough journey that they'll need more than a day, so she makes herself wait until Friday. She goes in as normal on Thursday, asks him how his sister's courtship is going, and then asks after him. She's not _sure_ he'd tell her, if he'd met someone who caught his eye, but people tend to be truthful with witches.

"Got some new fabric in," he says. "Black. If you're looking for a new dress it would probably be good."

"I might be," she says. "Thank you."

He nods and goes back to whatever he's working on, and Clarke nearly blurts it out right then, but--she's waited _a year_. She can wait another day. He does good business on Fridays, and she doesn't want to make him miss it.

So she goes in on Friday afternoon, right before he closes. He's surprised to see her, of course; she comes in once a week, every week, at the same time, and she never deviates from the schedule. She _can't_. She doesn't know how to see him any more than she does.

"I'm closing in a few minutes," he tells her. "But if there's something quick you need, I can help you."

She thought about it so much. What to tell him. How to make him believe she needed him for some purpose. Any way to not say that all she wants in the world is for him to remember her. "Not exactly. I need a favor."

He startles. "A favor? From me?"

"It's important. Or--I guess not very important, to most people," she corrects. "But it matters a lot to me. And I think it will benefit you too."

"You know, you'd be a lot better off if you stopped being cryptic and told me what you wanted."

This is why she can't talk to him. Nothing's changed at all. He's still Bellamy, and she still adores him. "Unfortunately, there's only so much I can tell you. I have an errand to run. I need someone's help to complete it." She takes a deep breath and adds, "If you come, I can restore the memories I took from you."

She can see him figuring it out as she watches, the shock fading into calculation, until he finally says, "I made a deal with you."

"You made a deal with me."

He nods. "My sister?"

"She was injured, badly. She was dead, by the time we got to her. You agreed to give up--" She falters on it. "The memories of your most precious person. To save her. To get her back."

"That would have been her," he says, instantly. "My sister. Those are the memories I would have lost."

"Apparently not," she says. Her voice is, somehow, steady. Casual, even. "You lost someone else."

"And if I come with you, I'll get them back." 

The simple statement feels as if it's breaking her open. He'll get her back. She'll get _him_ back. 

He goes on before she's made her voice work. "Why should I believe you?" he asks. He mostly sounds curious. "Any of this? I don't even remember her getting hurt. I don't remember going to you for help."

Same old Bellamy. "I can't prove any of it. That's not how it works. When I take memories, the memory of the spell always goes too. Otherwise you'd know what you lost. But--I need your help. If you aren't satisfied with the memories, I'll pay you when we get back," she adds. It's not like she has a lot of money, but if it works, he won't want it anyway. And if it doesn't work, she won't care about the money. "On my honor."

"I want that in writing," he says. "Your honor isn't worth much. No offense."

She has to smile. "None taken. I'm sure we can come up with an agreeable sum."

He watches as she writes up the agreement, leaning over her shoulder, not as close as he would have been, but still too close. It's still so much.

"What about O?" he asks, as she's getting ready to leave. "If I get my memories back, will she--"

"Nothing will happen to her. I'm sure of it. I would never--" But of course, he doesn't have any reason to think she cares about keeping his sister alive. She's a witch; witches care about people, in the abstract, not _people_. "I don't like taking memories," she tells him instead. "That's why I want to give yours back. But I wouldn't do that if it would undo the spell, or if it would threaten your sister. It was a powerful spell with a powerful price. But the price is paid. This won't unpay it. I promise, Bellamy."

It's the first time she's actually addressed him by name since he lost his memory, and maybe he realizes it too, because he frowns.

"I don't even know your name."

She doesn't know what her expression must look like, but it can't be so bad it gives her away. "Clarke. I'm Clarke."

He offers his hand. "Nice to meet you, Clarke."

"We've known each other for two years," she can't help pointing out.

"Still."

"Still." She shakes his hand, the same hand, warm and dry and calloused from work. "I'll come tomorrow. It's a long journey, so--we'll leave at dawn? I can bring horses."

"Sounds good. I'll see you tomorrow, Clarke."

"Thank you," says says, impulsive. "For helping me with this."

"I'm going to benefit too, right?" he asks. He doesn't sound convinced. "Get back--whoever I lost with this?"

"Yeah," she says. "You're going to benefit too."

*

The trip to the temple is basically everything she's been dreading since Bellamy lost his memories of her. He's warm and friendly and just as curious as always. He wants to know what happened, how curses work, how witchcraft works.

And he wants to know about her, where she came from, how she became a witch, how her heart broke. He wants to come and take her bruises, because he's still _Bellamy_ , and she could probably make him fall in love with her all over again. It wouldn't even be wrong of her, not really. He already did it once. She doesn't want anything he didn't already give her, but--she wants him to remember the first time. She doesn't want to do it again, and always be afraid she'll mention something from before. Something he lost.

It's bad enough when he says, "I guess I must never have thanked you. If I lost my memories after."

They're lying on the ground, a few feet apart on their uncomfortable sleeping pads, and Clarke isn't sure she's going to get any rest at all. But she's hoping. It would be incredibly sad if he didn't get his memories back because she fell asleep in the middle of the trials.

"You thanked me before," she tells him, smiling a little. "Repeatedly. I had to tell you to stop thanking me so I could get to work."

"That sounds like how it would go. Still--thanks. Again."

"You're welcome. I'm glad I could save her," she adds. It's still strange to say, because it's been such a painful year for her. It's been _awful_. But she wouldn't change it either. She couldn't have let Bellamy's sister die.

"Me too."

There's a quality to his silence that makes her think he wants to say more, and her throat already feels like it's closing up, so she says, "You should get some sleep. We have the trials in the morning."

"I should. Better get rid of this curse I didn't know I had," he adds, dry.

Her blood runs cold at his tone. "You don't want to?" 

His pause is so long that she thinks he might say no, and she has no idea what she'll do. "I do want to know what I lost," he says finally. "But--fuck, it doesn't sound real. I can't believe there was anyone I cared about more than my sister, and then I just--I know it's magic, but it still seems totally impossible. And what happens if I get them back?" he goes on, voice small. "Do they remember me? Do we just--fuck." She's glad he goes on, mostly because she's absolutely hoping that she's going to have him naked in the next forty-eight hours. But that doesn't seem like what he was actually trying to say. "It sounds so weird," he admits, voice small.

"I guess it must," she says. She knows exactly what she's supposed to tell him, but it still takes her a while to force the words out. "You don't have to. I don't need the plant that much. If you don't want the memories back--"

"Do you think I want them?" he asks.

"Yes," she says. She can't say anything else. He loves her. Of course he wants her back. "I think you do."

His voice is warm. "Thanks. Goodnight, Clarke."

"Goodnight."

*

He still hesitates at the door, after everything. She can't blame him, but--she wants to shove him through herself. She's aching for it.

"You know this isn't your fault, right?" he asks. "The curse. I asked for it. If this doesn't work, you don't have to feel bad. Even if it does--you didn't do anything wrong."

It's nice of him to say, but she doesn't care. "I know I didn't. Open the door, Bellamy." She doesn't shove him all the way, but she does push him a little. Just to get him moving.

"If this kills me, I'm going to haunt you," he tells her, and opens the door.

Clarke can feel the magic burst through as soon as he does it, all the pent up goodness pouring out and looking for something to latch onto, and there's Bellamy, right there, with a hole in his mind. She doesn't feel what happens, but she knows when it ends, and she sees his eyes open.

She checks her own memories, and feels her heart drop when she finds she can still pull everything up from his side: the way he felt when he first saw her, the first time he wanted to kiss her, the way his heart twisted up when he saw the bruises on her hands.

She thought they'd go, once he had them back. She didn't think she'd keep them too.

"Clarke," he says, which doesn't give her much to go on. It's clear that _something_ happened. If it wasn't the curse, she doesn't know what else it could be.

She wets her lips, but her voice is still shaking. "How do you feel?" 

He swallows, trying to get his own voice back. "Fucking _shitty_. I forgot your _name_."

She hurls herself into his arms so hard she'd feel guilty about it, but he catches her and holds her tight, engulfing her in his perfect, familiar scent, filling her whole chest up with light and warmth and love. He knows her. He _knows_.

"I'm so sorry," he murmurs, stroking her hair. She's trying not to cry, but not trying that hard. "I didn't even--I should have known. That you'd be what I lost."

"It doesn't matter. Not--the price didn't matter." His hand slides down to her back, rubbing soothing circles, and a year of tension is draining out of her all at once, leaving her sagging. "And I could have looked at the translation harder," she admits. "It's--I guess precious isn't wrong, but it's not all of it. It's not about love, it's about--it's the memories that make you happiest, I guess. The ones that--"

He lets out a soft laugh. "I know what it means. Trust me, I know exactly what it means."

"I would have warned you, but it wouldn't have mattered. You had to do it, and I still would have found a way to--"

"I did, and you would. But I would have kissed you first," he says, and it's not a surprise. Even without getting to see his side of all their time together, it wouldn't have been hard to figure out. 

But it's still so good to hear him say it.

She noses the bare skin where his shoulder meets his neck. "You can kiss me now." He probably figured that out too. "It's not too late."

He doesn't do it right away; he kisses her hair first, squeezes her, and then pulls back to just look at her, eyes roving over her face. She can't blame him, because she's been spending a year trying not to look directly at him, and it's so nice to just take him in without feeling twisted up over it.

He smiles, leans in, brushes his nose against hers. His hand tangles in her hair again, cradling her head, and then he finds her mouth. The kiss is slow and soft, and it feels like an apology, an acknowledgement of how much she must have been hurting. She melts into him, sliding her own hands up to tangle in his hair, and he groans and pulls her closer, the kiss turning hot and wet and desperate as they both remember how long they've been wanting.

He's panting when he finally pulls back. "I love you," he says. "I probably should have said that sooner."

She laughs and pulls him down again, can't get enough of the taste of his smile. "I love you too. But I'm glad you kissed me first."

"I meant last year," he says. "I should have told you a lot time ago. Fuck, I love you, I'm sorry, I--"

She kisses him again. "It's fine. I promise, I don't need you to talk to me right now."

"Maybe I want to talk," he teases, but he lets his mouth trace down her jaw. "Can I keep telling you I love you?"

She gasps when his teeth scrape her neck lightly. "You can say that as much as you want."

"Good," he says. "It's going to be a lot."

*

She gets the herbs she wanted while they're there, since they won't make it back today even if they leave immediately. They ride halfway home and stop for the night in a clearing by the stream. Bellamy catches them dinner, and they talk about the last year while they eat. When he asks what she did, she's honest, doesn't sugarcoat how hard it was, but he doesn't apologize again, just wraps his arm around her and kisses her hair.

"I kept worrying you'd find someone else," she admits. "That you'd fall in love, and--"

He actually laughs. "No, definitely not. I think I must have known, somewhere. O was telling me that, you know, I should settle down, and someone or another was interested, and I just--I couldn't even think about it."

"Good," she says, vicious, and he just squeezes her shoulders. 

He's the one who lays out the sleeping pads, and he puts them together without asking her. It makes her heart pound, thinking of it. She does want him, wants him with a fierceness that's overwhelming, but--she's never been with a man before, just women. This is new.

If he's expecting anything, he doesn't say. He strips down to his undershirt and breeches and slides into bed, and Clarke sheds everything but her shift and settles next to him. He tugs her in close, nose in her hair, and tangles their fingers together.

"I can't wait to not be sleeping on the ground," he says.

"It's only two nights," she teases. "And I assume it was worth it."

"More than worth it." He strokes his thumb over hers. "Everyone else will remember too, right? My sister's not going to wonder why I'm suddenly spending all my time with you?"

"I assume so. No one I know has ever done this before, so--we don't know how it works. But I don't why you'd remember and no one else would."

"I guess we'll find out." They lie in silence for a minute, Clarke trying to figure out if she should be doing something and Bellamy stroking her hand lightly. "Is this okay?" he asks, soft.

"What?"

"Sleeping like this. Are you comfortable?"

She twists around to look at him. It's hard to make him out in the dark, but she can see enough. "Are we going to sleep?"

"That was my plan."

She curls into his chest. "Oh." He probably wants to wait. It's only been a day, and a year before that, so--

"Clarke," he says, gentle and amused. "We're on the ground in the woods. I'm saddlesore and so are you." He leans in for a kiss. "Tomorrow we're going to be in your bed with the whole night to work with. It sounds a lot more pleasant." His hand trails down her side. "Unless you can't wait."

She shivers and presses closer, and he slides his fingers up under her slip to brush her leg, making her whimper, and he laughs. 

"Wow, you really can't."

"It's been a _year_ , Bellamy," she says, and he catches her mouth for another kiss, pulling her on top of him fully. His hands are roving up her legs, rough and perfect, lighting her skin on fire everywhere he touches, and all her doubt turns to lust in seconds. "Please."

"Fuck," he says. "Yeah, of course, I--" He laughs and pulls her mouth back to his. "I didn't want to make you do anything you weren't--" 

"I want you," she says, and he rolls them over so she's on her back, stretched out under him. His mouth is warm on hers, his leg insinuating itself between her thighs, giving her the friction she's so desperate for. 

"Yeah," he murmurs. "Good. I'm going to--" He kisses down her neck and then lower, and Clarke feels wild. "I'm going to take care of you, Clarke."

He tugs on the hem of her shift and she leans up to let him pull it off her. Even in the dark, his eyes rove over her, greedy, and she squirms again.

"You can't say that and _stop_ ," she says.

He laughs and leans back in, kissing her breasts. "I fucking dream about these," he tells her.

"I know."

He pauses again, eyes flicking up to her. But his hand slides between her legs as he watches her, rough and perfect, and she keens. "Know what?"

"I got--" She gasps. "When I take someone's memories, I know what I take. I know how you--"

He laughs. "Really? Shit."

"I don't mind. I have--I dream about you too. About you-- _fuck_."

He rubs his fingers over her entrance. "Fuck, you're so wet. Tell me what you dream about. If you know mine, I want yours too."

"This," she says. "Your mouth, everywhere. Your hands. Fuck, everything. Just--you."

"You can have me," he says, and turns his attention back to her breast.

He was right, of course; it's not comfortable on the sleeping pad, and she's aware of a rock pushing into her back and how achy she's going to be, but his mouth is warm on her breast and his fingers are pushing inside her, and he's _here_ , real and hers and the same Bellamy she fell in love with. She couldn't have waited for tomorrow.

She comes twice before he finally fumbles his own breeches open and slides inside her. She's wet enough the entrance is smooth, but it still takes her a few seconds to adjust. He waits, forehead resting on her shoulder as he breathes, and then she tugs him up for a kiss as she starts to move.

"I love you," he says, and then it's just the two of them moving together, the perfect thrust of him inside her, the rest of the world falling away.

He bites her shoulder as he comes, and it's nothing like Clarke imagined, but absolutely perfect all the same.

Bellamy rolls off her, breathing hard. "Fuck. I have no idea why I didn't think we should do that tonight."

"You wanted to be in a bed," says Clarke, curling around him. "And you didn't know I'd been thinking about this all day."

"I should have. Not like I wasn't. Once I, uh--"

"Once you remembered."

"Yeah." He exhales. "So, you saw all my memories."

"Not in detail. They just kind of--flashed by. I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault. But you should tell me some stuff I don't know about you. So we're even."

"The first day we met, Octavia came in to get you for dinner, and I hadn't even really--I didn't even realize I wanted you yet, but I was really disappointed. I thought you were spoken for."

"No," he says. His voice is already going heavy with sleep. "I'm all yours."

*

They make it back to Arcadia just after eight, and they go to Bellamy's first, so they can make sure Octavia is fine and remembers Clarke, and Clarke is only a little nervous about it. She knows she didn't do anything _wrong_ ; on the contrary, she saved Octavia, restored Bellamy's memories, and everyone is happy. She's the only one who suffered for this.

But it's a lot of power for someone to have. It's a lot for her to be able to do. It makes people nervous.

When Bellamy opens the door, though, it's not just Octavia waiting for them. Lincoln's there, which isn't surprising, but so are Miller and Monty, and Raven and her new girl, Gina, whom Clarke hasn't even been introduced to yet.

"So, that was fucked up," Raven says, by way of greeting, and the last of Clarke's anxiety drains out of her all at once. 

"You have no idea," she says, sinking down next to Raven and resting her head on Raven's shoulder.

Raven pets her hair. "You must have had the shittiest year, huh?"

Bellamy takes the seat next to her, lacing their fingers together, and Clarke lets her eyes drift closed. She's tired and achy from sleeping on the floor, and her heart still feels a little like it's been through the wringer.

But it came out the other side. It's better now.

"Probably the shittiest year every, yeah," she agrees. "Octavia shouldn't die again."

"But you know how to fix it now, right?" asks Octavia. "So it's fine. I can die as much as I want." 

"That's not the lesson to take from this," says Lincoln, and Octavia smiles.

"I know. Thanks, though," she adds, to Clarke. "For saving me."

"Bellamy's the one who saved you. I just did the spell."

"Uh huh. You're the one who spent a year pining after my brother. I'm thanking you."

"I'm a witch," says Clarke. "It's what I do."

"You're Clarke," Bellamy corrects her. He squeezes her fingers. "This is what you do."

She's warm and relaxed and surrounded by people who love her. She has, for the first time in her life, everything she wants. She's going to be so happy.

"I could do this, yeah," she says. "This could work for me."


End file.
